Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. She was going through with that, anyhow. He had invited himself to dine with her merely to watch her table manners. ” “He seems like such a nice boy. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. For a few minutes, she appeared scarcely sensible of his presence. ” She replied. There's something queer about that young man; but we'll never be able to find out what it is.
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